Jessica Jones Season 2: Aftermath
by Jonesy-V
Summary: Immediately following the Season 1 finale of Netflix and Marvel's Jessica Jones series, Jessica finds herself grappling with life after Kilgrave and is still haunted by guilt for all the lives lost throughout season 1.
1. Episode 14: AKA People are Still Dead

There are three types of people in this world. There are the heroes—the people who do the saving. There are the villains—the people who like to stir shit up. And there are the victims—the people who need saving. I like to think there's a fourth category for assholes like me who imagine themselves in between one of these three categories—not a victim, but casually sitting between hero and villain depending on how you look at it. The truth is I'm no hero, and I don't pretend to be.

It's because of me that the lives of countless numbers of people got so fucked up. Murderer is a word that comes to mind. Failure. I couldn't act fast enough, couldn't be strong enough. Not at first. It's because of me that Hope Shlottman is dead, and Ruben, and Albert, and Reva. That's only naming a few. Because at the end of the day, it was me, and only me, with the power to stop Kilgrave. The rest of the world was caught in the crossfire.

I fucked up, and not just once. Over and over again. If I'd just done what he'd wanted, things may have gone my way a lot sooner. Or maybe if I'd let Simpson get hold of him instead of fighting that crazy bastard. Let Kilgrave become someone else's problem for once, someone who deserved to get the shit kicked out of them and more. But I know that I'm just being stupid. Kilgrave was my responsibility from the moment I left his side. I'm not talking about letting myself be mind-controlled again. No. But I should have acted sooner. Snuck up on him when he had me in the house back on Birch Street. Killed him when I had the chance. I was too busy trying to save everybody, like Hope Shlottman. I was too busy trying to be the hero.

And that's why I'm the fourth category. It's just me in there, sitting alone. Maybe someone like Simpson would get slotted in there as well, though that's company I'd rather not keep. I hope they have enough booze.

I finish off my bottle of convenient-store tequila and toss the plastic container across the room. It misses the garbage bin and bounces off the wall. The place is a mess. Chunks of drywall cover the floor. Wiring is sticking out of the gaping holes in the walls. From my office area I can see straight into my bedroom. With the hole gouged in the window of the apartment door, this is slightly problematic. If I was Trish, this would have been one of the top tasks on my to-do list after twisting Kilgrave's neck. Unfortunately cleaning the place up isn't quite as satisfying as drinking the entire contents of the convenient store down the street.

Plus the deluge of voicemails kind of occupied my time. I wanted to delete them all, but Malcolm was there, and Malcolm's a good guy. He's in the hero category but doesn't realize it yet. When he heard the messages playing on my phone, his instinct was to listen to them and do something about it. When the phone rang, an unknown number, he was the one to answer it, naming my PI business, Alias Investigations, and taking down the caller's information. A woman whose husband had a dangerous gambling addiction. As if that were the apex of the world's problems. I had just killed a man, barely escaped a judge, a jury, and jail time—which wouldn't have been all that bad if it hadn't been the lack of alcohol—and here was a woman wanting help with her martial crises. Jesus, what I wouldn't give to have _that_ be the centre of my worries, instead of a mind-controlling maniac. Malcolm stayed at my desk and answered every call. He wrote down each potential client with care. I went to bed. Like I said: fourth category.

But now Malcolm is back at his apartment. It's sometime early the next morning. I didn't check the time. Time doesn't matter anymore, not now that Kilgrave is dead. I have all the time in the world. Too much of it, in fact. My hands feel fidgety, and my brain empty. What did I do before my fear of him occupied every waking—and sleeping—thought? I slide open another desk drawer and feel around for another bottle. My hand finds one, but when I pull it out I see that it's empty. I chuck that one across the room too. This sucks.

Trish calls sometime around nine. By now I've been sitting at my desk long enough for my ass to go numb and I've finished off all the remaining alcohol in the apartment. The convenient store seems too far away suddenly to go buy more, however thirsty I am. I've been staring at my desk, at the neat pile of messages Malcolm took down, in some sort of catatonic state involving flashbacks that may or may not have been memory. I've repeated the names of the streets that I grew up by fifteen times. It's not been helping much.

"How are you?" Trish asks sincerely. Her voice oozes with concern and compassion. Because of those innate qualities, I'd always put her in the "victim" category, but lately I'm starting to reconsider. Seeing what happens between heroes and villains, though, I'm not too keen on the idea.

"I'm fine," I say, more casually than I actually feel. "It's the first morning that I've woken up in my apartment _not_ worrying who Kilgrave will murder next, which is always a plus."

"You did it, Jess," Trish says. "He's gone."

I pause. "I know."

"Listen, how about you come over?" Trish says. "We can celebrate, have a dinner party."

"A dinner party?"

"Yeah, just something small to thank everyone who had a hand in killing Kilgrave. You, me, Malcolm, Hogarth—"

"No, not Hogarth." My tone is harsh. "She may have saved me from jail but she killed a lot of people, Trish. She's the reason why Louise and Albert are dead."

"Okay, okay, you're right. Not Hogarth."

"I vote no to this whole dinner party idea at all."

I can hear Trish sigh on the other end.

"Jess, we're in a good place now. Kilgrave is dead, thanks to you. And I get that this must be a really weird time. I can't even begin to understand what you're feeling. But I hope it's relief and happiness, because you did a good thing, and so many people will get to live normal lives because of you."

I lean back in my chair and stare up at the ceiling. I can't take Trish's kindness, not right now. She's always seen the goodness in people and has difficulty seeing the bad, but it's especially the case when it comes to me. I'm one of her weaknesses. We've had our problems, but she's never fully grasped the piece of shit that I actually am.

"Kilgrave may be dead, but a lot of other people are too, Trish."

"I know that, Jessica."

We share a moment of silence that speaks more than our voices can.

"Just come by my place, okay? Spend the day with me. Celebrate, even if it only means you being passed out on my couch."

"I take it that means you have booze?"

"I can, if you come by."

I roll my eyes.

"Forget it. Save yourself the trouble. There's a convenient store on the way. I was about to go there anyways."

Trish can probably smell the bullshit in my relenting tone.

"Fine. Come by if only because your quest for tequila falls in between my place and yours."

"You got it."

We click off and I feel a sudden loneliness cling to me. I stare out the broken window, the one Trish had made especially for me. Malcolm's apartment is down the hall on the left. I think of him sitting in there, and how easy it was to let him take over for the night. I didn't have to do anything by myself. I was comfortable falling asleep with him in the apartment because I knew I wasn't alone. I sigh and damn Trish for being right.

In the elevator I reject two calls from unknown numbers. The convenient store isn't "on the way"; it's a thirty minute walk from my apartment to Trish's on the Upper East Side, and the convenient store is just down the street from me. I purchase their cheapest bottle of bourbon and ask for it in a paper bag. The walk doesn't feel as long with the bottle to distract me; it's finished by the time I arrive outside Trish's apartment door.

"I guess you'll be needing more," Trish says when she opens the door. I slide past her into the apartment.

"You guessed right."

I chuck my empty bottle into her recycling box and go searching her cabinets for booze. It's a long shot since she's a recovering drug addict, but I know she sometimes keeps booze on-hand for guests. Like me. I find a three-quarters empty bottle of rum stashed behind the blender and pull that out. I unscrew the lid and take a swig.

"Want a glass?" Trish asks with raised eyebrows. I finish the rum off and wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. Trish holds my gaze as I screw the lid back on and then chuck that bottle into the garbage bin, where I hear it shatter.

I lie down on her couch and throw my forearm over my eyes. I listen to Trish sit in the armchair across from me.

"Do you have to go back to the police department?" she asks.

"Nope," I say.

"That Hogarth is one hell of a lawyer."

"She's also one hell of an asshole," I say. "I guess those two characteristics go hand-in-hand."

Trish leans forward and puts her hand on my leg. I remove my arm from over my eyes and look at her.

"Jess, why are you being like this?" she says with kind concern. Her arched blonde eyebrows are knitted together delicately in the centre of her forehead as she stares at me with worry. "Kilgrave is dead, Hogarth has kept you out of jail. Things are good now, aren't they?"

I know that Trish wants me to agree with her, and that it probably seems like the obvious way to answer, but I can't. I hold Trish's gaze for a moment longer before throwing my arm over my eyes again. I stay silent on the matter.

"Got any more booze?" I ask instead.

"Jess, I'm serious," Trish prods. "What's wrong?"

I pull my arm away and stare at Trish like I can't believe she'd even ask. I push myself up into a sitting position. My elbows dig into my knees.

"Do you think that killing Kilgrave magically erased all of the things he did?" I ask. "People are still dead, Trish. Kilgrave's death isn't going to bring anybody back to life."

"I know that, but—"

"But what? You want to paint me into some sort of hero role, like all the other people out there? Well, don't. I did what I had to do. But I should've done it sooner. It's because of me that people like Hope Shlottman will never get to know what true freedom feels like. All those people that died because of him—they'll never know what it was like to live after he was gone, to not be haunted by his presence. Hope, Ruben, Wendy—they all died in fear of him, Trish. There were times where I could have killed him but didn't because I wanted to be the hero. I was too afraid of the lives that would be lost with his death, meanwhile the bodies kept piling up every second he breathed."

I get to my feet and stride over to the kitchen. My quest for booze continues but comes up short. I close the last cabinet in Trish's kitchen.

"Shit," I say.

"I think you're being too hard on yourself."

I turn around. Trish is sitting at the island on a bar stool looking at me in earnest.

"What are you, a psychiatrist now?"

"No, I'm your friend." Trish clasps her hands over the countertop. "I just want what's best for you."

"Well, stop," I say. I return to the couch and sink into it again, but I don't let myself get comfortable. My muscles won't let me. They lock up and spasm, my nerves on high-alert. The alcohol has done very little to dull my senses since I woke up this morning. I stare off to the side, not wanting to see Trish looking at me in my peripheral vision. I can still feel it, though. Her stare burns into the side of my face and grates against my nerves.

After a while, Trish slides off the barstool.

"I'm going to order us a pizza," she says quietly, "since I'm assuming all you've had for the last twenty-four hours is alcohol. Then we can talk about something else if you want."

"Good," I spit, but I want nothing more than to be back in my own bed pretending the world doesn't exist. Because the one I used to know just days before doesn't, and I'm not sure what to do with the new one I'm occupying.


	2. Episode 15: AKA Murderer

I've never really been the sentimental type. Losing the things that you've loved over and over again will probably do that to a person. First the car accident, then Kilgrave. I don't really believe in fate but it seems like I was never meant to be happy for long. It's why I try not to get too attached to people or things, though that sometimes fails.

The bar is still black from the smoke, the front blown out completely. Inside the mangled hole is the bar itself, one end touching the floor where the cabinets burned down. The sunlight catches the sparkle of broken glass everywhere. The shards scatter out onto the street where the tiniest bits have been ground into dust. People walk by without taking a second glance, as if they're used to that sort of thing by now. After the city being invaded by aliens, I guess certain things fail to surprise people.

I try not to picture him behind that bar, but it's too late. He's there, in a plain white t-shirt, his arm muscles twitching with each twist of the rag inside the empty glass. He flashes a smile at a customer when they speak. He places the glass somewhere beneath the countertop and reaches for another one. He nods at the customer and responds in turn. His head turns in my direction, and suddenly his stare is cold, his smile is gone, and it's like ice down my spine.

A horn honks and the bar is empty, black, the acrid smell of smoke still thick in the air. Luke is nowhere to be seen.

My phone rings. Malcolm. I press the reject button and slip it back into my pocket. I give the bar one last look and then take off in the opposite direction.

The pizza sits like soggy paste in my stomach on the walk back to my apartment. That's what I get for eating Trish's gourmet vegan shit. I stop at the convenient store up the street from me and get a wonton soup and bottle of bourbon to go. My body's not all that used to too many solids right now.

My phone rings again on the elevator. This time Trish's name comes up on the display. I reject that call too. One of the things Kilgrave's death gave me was the freedom to disappear. With my soup and bourbon, that's my plan for the rest of the day.

But when the elevator gets to my floor and the door slides open, I see that the hallway has about three extra people in it, none of whom I recognize as residents of the building. The fourth person and the one standing closest to me is Malcolm. His hands are tucked inside his armpits. He steps towards me the moment he lays eyes on me.

"Jessica," he says. "I tried to call you."

I realize then that these people are waiting outside _my_ door, the one that should have said "Alias Investigations" on the glass window but now only aids the peep-show into my office space.

"What's going on?" I ask. "Who are all these people?"

We keep our voices low. The other three haven't noticed I'm here yet; one is peering intently into my apartment, practically slicing his stomach open on the glass shards as he leans further and further through the hole in the window, and the other two are leaning against the hallway walls staring off into space.

"I don't know," Malcolm says. "They're clients, I think. They've been coming all day, but you haven't been home."

"Who's 'they'?"

Malcolm sighs. His innate goodness makes it difficult for him to hold patience with my inherent shittiness.

"People who want you to help them."

My mouth stays hanging open as Malcolm takes my elbow. I'm sure, "What the hell?" is written all over my expression. He steers me towards the small crowd of people outside my apartment door.

"Guys, this is Jessica Jones," Malcolm says. It takes everything I have not to punch him in the face. I jerk my elbow free of his hand.

"Let go of me," I snap. Three pairs of eyes have turned to stare at me.

"What do you want?" I ask impatiently. "I have wonton soup that I was about to enjoy."

The three of them start speaking at once. A lady starts pleading with me in Mandarin. I have no idea what she's saying. An elderly man tells me that his wife has been wandering out of their apartment at all hours of the day and night and has acquired many pieces of expensive jewellery. The second man, the one with his head inside my apartment a moment before, says something about his step-daughter and her boyfriend.

Malcolm reads my expression and waves his arms in the air.

"Okay, okay," he says. "Maybe we can let Jessica into her office and then you can each meet with her one at a time."

The woman nods and backs away. The elderly man casts his eyes towards the floor as if he's been chastised by a school teacher. The man with daughter-issues takes a step back but informs me that he was there first. I shoot him a sarcastic, tight-lipped smile and then glare at Malcolm.

"What do you expect me to do here?" I ask.

"Jessica, these people came to you for help."

" _Why_?"

Malcolm looks at me like I'm an idiot.

"Because you're a PI," he says slowly. "Because even though Kilgrave's dead, you still have bills to pay and rent to make every month."

I roll my eyes. Malcolm grabs my arm when I go to walk away.

"Don't ignore this opportunity, Jessica," he pleads. "I'm not asking you to be a hero. But being a regular person doesn't mean you can't help people."

"I'm not a regular person," I hiss.

"You know what I mean." Malcolm stares at me, his eyes clear. "It's why you became a PI, right? To help people. And it's why you wanted to kill Kilgrave. So that nobody else became his victim."

"Yeah, and I did a pretty shitty job of it."

"No, Jessica, no you didn't." Malcolm sighs. "Look, whatever you're thinking, whatever you're feeling…it'll go away with time. And support. You should come by one of the meetings, for real this time. You might find that it helps you. In the meantime, there are people here who need you. Go back to your normal life."

But I don't know what normal is anymore. I don't tell Malcolm that when I stepped off the elevator and saw these people standing there, my first instinct was to assume that Kilgrave had sent them and run. It hasn't sunk in that he's dead yet. Maybe it never will. How can I learn to live in a world without constant fear and paranoia?

I grip the plastic bag holding my container of wonton soup tighter in my hand and step forward. Three pairs of eyes look at me expectantly.

"You'll have to wait while I eat my lunch," I tell them. I push past the cluster and reach through the hole to unlock my door. Then I step inside and slam the door behind me. I eat at my desk and take my time, fully aware of the fact that they're watching me while I do it. There's a certain pleasure in pissing people who need you off.

I sign contracts with the elderly man and the woman after using a translating app to figure out what the hell she's saying. I make the second man wait the longest. The chair across from me creaks when he lowers himself into it. He looks at our surroundings with a curl to his lip. He clearly thinks this place is a dump. He's bald in the top centre of his head and wears thick wire-rimmed glasses. His golf jacket says money, as do his manicured and clean finger-nails, but his gut says he spends more time eating and drinking at the club than he does golfing. Chances are he's a businessman who needed a place to wine and dine his clients; a membership at a swanky golf club was probably just convenient and flashy. The impression he gives off is that of complete asshole; I know the type.

He tells me about his step-daughter: sixteen, miserable, standard daddy issues. That's what I glean from his complaints, anyways. Dating a kid that this guy thinks is a dickhead. He suspects her of sneaking out at night, having come into her room more than once to find the bed empty. When he questions her about it, she denies everything, and her mother takes her side.

When he finishes his story, asks me if I can figure out where she's going at night and if she's meeting up with her boyfriend, I get the sense that there's more going on than he'd like to say. The way he speaks about her goes beyond interest for her well-being. He's controlling, manipulative, and probably has some serious anger issues. I twist the cap of my pen between my fingers as the guy continues to gesticulate in front of me. Beads of sweat dabble his forehead. He seems to take the girl's behaviour personally, her absence at night some pointed affront to him. But what I want to know is why he's going into her room at night at all.

I have him sign the contract, but it's just for show. When he leaves, I shred it. Then I gather his information and start doing a little digging around on the internet. It isn't hard to find the golf club where he's a member, and to find his profile on Ashley Madison. So the guy's a slime-ball. I'm not surprised. His Facebook page is standard—pictures uploaded just to show off, mostly of family vacations and nights out on the town. His wife is good-looking, so his need to sleep around purely stems from him being a dick. There are a lot of pictures up of the threesome: him, his wife, and his step-daughter. His step-daughter is also really good-looking. He's tagged her in a lot of his posts, I notice. Blonde hair, slim build. After some browsing I find a picture of her in a cheerleading uniform at her high school's football game. In that instant she reminds me so much of Hope that I slam my laptop closed and push myself away from my desk. I lean my forehead against the wall. I breathe. My hands shake and I can't stop them. I punch my fist into the plaster; my hand goes right through. I reach for my bottle of bourbon and down the remains. Suddenly I feel like I'm going to be sick. The dizziness is so overwhelming that I clench my eyes shut. After a moment it passes. I list off the four street names without having to think about them; my tongue's muscle memory forms the syllables without hesitation.

I turn back to my search with more purpose than I had before. The guy's not good at hiding much. I find out about his ex-wife and their divorce online. I get his ex's contact info and call her pretending to be Patsy looking for 'John,' the name he used on his Ashley Madison account; he'd introduced himself to me as Richard. I find out from his ex that he legally changed his name and took on his new wife's surname when they married; with a detailed and violent message to pass along to him, his ex gives me his cell number. Now that I know he changed his name, it doesn't take long before I find out what it used to be. John Reinhart, now Richard Manson, was convicted of possessing child pornography twenty years ago.

I call the guy's cell phone and pretend to get cut off. He calls me back a moment later, and when I answer it, I track his number. It's located just outside his step-daughter's high school. He could be picking her up, but I take a taxi to over to check it out myself. It turns out as I suspected. While his step-daughter attends cheerleading practise in the football field, he's positioned in the bushes jacking off as he watches her.

I walk over casually. He doesn't notice me—too busy with his hand down his pants. I grab onto his jacket from behind and hurl him behind me. He goes flying and skids across the middle of the street on his back. He gets onto his hands and knees; his fly is open and his belt buckle drags on the ground.

"What the fuck?" he yells. He looks up at me.

"Jones?" he says.

"Get up, asshole," I say. I walk over to him and lift him by the front of his jacket until his feet are dangling in the air. I chuck him further across the street. His back smashes into the side of a car, denting the door. I hear the air rush out of his lungs as he collapses to the ground. There's no one around to see, but I wouldn't care if they were. I don't deal kindly with people like him.

"What—what are you doing?" he asks. He struggles to stand and do up his pants at the same time. "I'm just here to pick up Sarah…"

"Shut up," I tell him. I land a solid right hook to his jaw and blood flies out of his mouth. I force him to stand, pinning him against the car. I get real personal, so he knows exactly how things are going to go.

"I saw what you were doing, you disgusting prick," I hiss. "So this is what you're going to do. You're going to go home, pack your things. You're going to ask your wife for a divorce. Then you're going to leave before Sarah gets home. Go as far away from here as you can. Do _not_ contact Sarah ever again. If you do, I'll cut your balls off myself."

I drop Richard back onto the ground and turn around.

"Who the fuck do you think you are, lady?" the guy asks. He cowers against the dented car behind him.

"A murderer," I say without looking back, "and you'd better not fuck with me."


End file.
